


Betrayal

by luvkurai



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, Emotions, Established Relationship, Kink Meme, M/M, Self-Hating Will, Suicide Attempt, also sex, slight AU, they are in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-14 12:50:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/837076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luvkurai/pseuds/luvkurai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now Will has seen him, has really seen him, and he can never hide again. Every subtle twitch is an attestation to the sickness buried inside him. The look of betrayal comes too potent on Will’s face; Hannibal raises an eyebrow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Contentment

**Author's Note:**

> Written for two prompts on the Hannibal Kink Meme. I'm kind of approaching this as an AU in which Hannibal and Will get together relatively early on in the series. 
> 
> Warning: Please beware of severe angst, discussion of suicide, depression, self-deprecation, etc. The fourth part contains intense dubcon. I don't view it as noncon, but you might, so please take heed.

_**be·tray (b** **ɪˈtre** **ɪ)**_

_1\. To be false or disloyal to._

_2\. To divulge in a breach of confidence_

_3\. To make known unintentionally_

_4\. To reveal against one’s desire or will._

_5\. To lead astray; deceive._

 

 

 

At first glance, Hannibal Lecter’s home appears to be covered entirely in yellow bricks. In reality, it is only the front that receives such ambience; the sides and the back of the house have only plain red stone. Still, the house faces to the west and Will appreciates the color the brick achieves in the light of the setting sun.

“In the kitchen,” Hannibal calls when he opens the door. He removes his jacket, hanging it in the coat closet in the entrance because last time he dropped it on the floor Hannibal gave him _that_ look. _Just watch—I can be good._

When Will walks through the entrance to Hannibal’s workspace, the man’s back faces him. He can see the muscles going in the man’s shirt. Tense, un-tense, tense, un-tense. Is he cutting something?

When he turns, Will sees a piece of meat laid out on the cutting board. His untrained eyes are unable to discern it’s origin. A wet, greasy overly on Hannibal’s hands is the telltale sign of him working tenderness into the meat.

“Good evening, Will.”

“What are you making?” he asks, walking across the kitchen. They share a light kiss during which Hannibal keeps his hands raised in the air, away from Will’s clothes.

“ _Fegato alla Venzeiana_ ,” he replies. The Italian pronunciation seems spot on, not that Will would know the difference. “Liver, Venetian style. Cooked in red wine.”

“Can I do anything to help?”

“Yes, actually, if you could chop the onions…”

“No problem. How was work?” Will picks up the chef’s knife, hoping desperately that he’ll remember to use it the way Hannibal taught him and won’t embarrass himself too terribly.

“Perpetually commonplace. How is Uncle Jack?”

Will wrinkles his nose, looks at Hannibal though he isn’t looking at him. He doesn’t mean to snap: “He’s _fine_. You should stop calling him that.”

Hannibal changes the subject, though the amusement in his voice is evident, to Will’s sustained chagrin. “How is the case?”

Will finishes the first half onion and pushes it aside with the sharp edge of the knife. If it were not so puerile, Will would grumble. “ _Fine.”_

“I should take that to mean the opposite is true, yes?”

With a sigh, he says, “I don’t know. I feel like I should have figured it out by now. I’ve spent so much time on the Ripper—way more than any other—and I still have zero leads.” He sets down the knife because his hands are shaking. Hannibal materializes beside him.

“I think you should take a break.” Feather-light, the man’s thumb runs across the underside of his wrist to his palm, circling slowly. Will laughs and pulls his hand from the grip. It’s the case talking but he _really_ can’t stand to be touched by Hannibal right then.

“Jack would _love_ that,” he quips. The grin on his face is forced, painfully so, and it makes his face feel as if it will break in half. “Besides, the Ripper could strike again any day. I have to at least _try_ and catch him.”

Will realizes a second too late the idea his tone brought forth.

“You do not believe you can catch the Ripper.” It is not a statement. The fake smile curls up and dies.

When he speaks, it takes every ounce of control he possesses to keep his voice from breaking, and it still quivers regardless. “How…How can I? The Ripper isn’t crazy, he’s intelligent. He knows exactly what he’s doing and he knows how to get away with it—“

“Sit down, Will. I will bring you a drink.” He obeys because he’s worried his legs will give out if he doesn’t. Hannibal methodically retrieves an unlabeled bottle of whiskey and pours Will a finger of it. Once received, he examines the crystal of the glass before setting it aside. Somehow he just doesn’t feel like drinking.

“Usually—” Will starts before dead air falls across his tongue. He tries again, “Usually, during cases it feels like I’m trying to get to know the killer. It’s like with Hobbs. I felt like I was becoming the Minnesota Shrike.”

“And the Ripper is different?” Hannibal sounds mildly surprised by Will’s statement. Sets the plate of liver aside and leans forward on the counter across from Will. He shakes his head back and forth to clear it. As if it could ever be clear.

“With the Ripper, it’s the opposite. I feel like he’s getting to know me. I’m not crawling inside him, he’s crawling inside me.” Will doesn’t like talking to Hannibal about this; he doesn’t want him to worry. He’s spoken about it in a clinical sense, discussed coping mechanisms and techniques to set the nightmares aside (none particularly successful). Hannibal is smart, he must have guessed it, but this is the first time any of this is coming out, in its entirety. Will takes his head into his hands. His entire body is shaking.

“ _Normally_ , I can feel that they are evading capture. Hiding from me. But now… _I’m_ the one hiding. How can I catch someone when I’m hiding from them?”

His lover begins to circle the counter, his intention to take Will into his arms as clear as day. It makes his entire composition seize up in nonsensical fear. He lashes out.

“No, _no_ , don’t touch me, stay _over there_ —“ Hannibal pauses at Will’s outburst, remaining at the corner of the counter with his eyes on his quaking form for a long moment. Then he continues walking to stand beside him. When Hannibal’s broad palm rests against Will’s back he worries he might vomit all over the counter.

“Drink your whiskey, please.” Gentle. _This is safe. A safe place with a safe person_ , Will tells himself. His fingers grab at the tumbler but he loses his grip and the crystal crashes to the floor, whiskey and all.

“I—I’m so sorry—“ He flings himself from the seat and onto the floor, picking up the larger glass shards much too quickly. A sharp edge slices his ring finger open. A hiss falls from his mouth; Hannibal pulls him to his feet by his bicep. Presses him backwards against the counter, away from the glass. One hand brings the sliced open finger to his mouth so he can lap up the blood. Hannibal’s expression would seem curious, more than anything, if he had not done this before, innumerably. An arm falls on either side of his waist. Caging him like a rabid dog.

“Calm down. You have nothing to worry about,” lips whisper against his neck. He presses forward a bit harder and Will is _really_ too apprehensive to be aroused, but, then again, it _is_ Hannibal. “I want to take care of you. Do you want me to take care of you?”

The words themselves seem virtuous enough, but everything sounds a bit different when two men’s cocks are pressing against one another through trouser fabric. Will groans.

“Go upstairs. I will bring you another drink.”

“The mess—“

“I will clean it up.”

“But, dinner—“

“It can wait. This is of more importance. Go.”

Upstairs, in Hannibal’s room, Will removes his shirt and his shoes but nothing else. He doesn’t know what Hannibal has planned. When alone, the case comes back. The irony of the layout of the bodies, the subtlety of it, both satirical and genteel. His eyes close.

 

_A tongue as a place holder in a bible. A man sitting across from himself on a bus. A woman gutted and hung from the rafters in her own studio. A wound man murdered upon his own surgery table._

_“I see these things, but they are not my design.”_

A hand brushes his crotch. His erection is fuller than it was downstairs, straining to be free. He opens his eyes slowly to look at Hannibal from heavy-lidded eyes. During his hallucination he fell backwards onto the bed. In addition, he realizes now that he had absently been writhing.

“Were you thinking of me, darling?” Will does not respond, doesn’t want to dwell on the reasons for his arousal when Hannibal is so physically here, available to him. He leans up to press his lips to the man’s. Winds his fingers in his hair. Moans.

Hannibal forcibly separates from him to take a sip from the glass of whiskey he brought with him. He transfers the liquid to Will’s mouth with a deep kiss and repeats the motion until the glass is empty. The alcohol, consumed quickly, creates a rush in Will’s gut that makes him instantly dizzy—he must be terribly dehydrated. Not enough to distract him from removing Hannibal’s trousers. The man is pliant, unbuttoning and removing his shirt with similar speed. He even rolls over when Will prods him, so he can climb atop and trail kisses from cheek to sternum then back again. His tongue brushes against the heat of his throat, his pulse point, in tiny licks. Hannibal catches his hips in his hands, circles the bare flesh above the waist of his trousers with his thumbs and scratches at it with dull nails. The pressure sends Will’s body ablaze.

Lifting off Hannibal slightly, Will pushes his pants and underwear down his hips and off his legs. They are both naked now, writhing atop one another.

“I want to ride you. _Hard._ ”

Hannibal nods. “Whatever you want.” His fingers move from Will’s hips to circle his ass, prodding at his hole. The lubricant is ready on the bedside table and he moves to retrieve it.

“No.” He is practically whining. “I want it to hurt.”

Will has never asked for this before, but Hannibal doesn’t seem put off in the least. The first finger presses past his rim. He hisses.

“Just go faster, I need you, I _need_ you.”

“Patience is a virtue, William,” and he _knows_ that Hannibal is enjoying this. Still, he wastes no further time, adding the next two fingers at the same time. Will forces himself to ignore how much pain he is in.

“Ok, ok.” He lifts himself off Hannibal’s fingers after a long moment of scissoring and finds the man’s erection with his hand. It is easy to press the head inside himself, that much is already open and gaping thanks to Hannibal’s fingers. The rest is more difficult. Will cannot deceive himself into thinking the pain isn’t real. Every movement sends a surge up his spine, sends tears to his eyes. Hannibal wipes one away with his thumb and takes one hand in his to aid in balance. Will’s knees are already aching, muscles cramping and is gratified when Hannibal thrusts up into him, paving the way for him. It takes three more thrusts for Will’s hips to meet Hannibal’s. He shifts slightly, looking for his prostate. Gasps when it hits and lights explode across his vision.

Hannibal kisses, bites at his wrist. “Good—find your pleasure,” he murmurs.

Orgasm reaches Will much too quickly. It’s the mix of Hannibal’s voice and his emotional discrepancy, he thinks, brought alive by this man comforting him. But he’s cumming, spurting all over himself and Hannibal before all the strength leaves him.

“You didn’t cum,” he realizes through the exhaustion. Tries to roll them over so Hannibal can rut into him and finish, but Hannibal places a hand on his lower back, restricting movement.

“Stay like this,” he says. “For a time, dear William.”

They lay dozing for at least an hour, Will’s seed splayed between them. When Hannibal finally rolls Will onto his side and withdraws, he only barely wakes up. A handkerchief against his chest cleans the majority of the mess, leaving only a sticky trails in the path.

“I will finish preparing dinner. Please come down when you are ready.” Will thinks Hannibal places a kiss upon his forehead, but he is already too deep in sleep to know for sure.

 

_When the man screams, blood comes flying out of his mouth. If he did not sidestep the crimson sludge would easily stain his clothing. That would be unbearable._

_With his surgical scalpel he carves at the man’s lips. Patient. When he opens his mouth again, wide so as to beg for his life, or perhaps for a painless death, he presses two latex-gloved fingers between his teeth. Holding the mouth wide at the jaw. The blade delves inside, carves across—_

_“You have to honestly confront your limitations with what you can do,” Hannibal says, approaching him at the ladder. “And how it affects you.”_

_—the back of the tongue with careful ease. Now the man cannot even beg. The muscle continues to bleed onto his hand, carefully covered by plastic so as to not leave any traces._

_“I see these things, but they are not my design.”_

He wakes up to the sound of his own scream. Despite what it is born from, the fact that he can feel his tongue, still intact and quivering against his teeth, is assuring. He can still feel the warmth of the blood on his hands, as if separated by a layer aside from the gloves the Ripper uses.

After managing to silence himself, he listens carefully. In his hysteria he was unable to ascertain how loud the scream was, whether or not Hannibal would have been able to hear. There are no sounds warning him of approaching movement, luckily.

A glance at the clock tells him that he only slept for an hour or so, depending on how long he and Hannibal were engaged. The dream was explicitly vivid, more so than any other dream or hallucination he’s had about the Ripper.

_Too bad it didn’t help figure out who he is…_

He’s still exhausted, but when he closes his eyes for too long he sees a tongue placed prudently between the pages of a bible. When he shifts, he is horrified to feel that his erection is back.  

It doesn’t make sense. It would be one thing if the Ripper murdered for sexual reasons. Then, at least Will dreaming of the kills and waking with a raging hard-on would make sense. But the murders couldn’t be any _less_ sexualized. He doesn’t rape them, doesn’t so much as stick his cock down their throats. This time, Hannibal is not here to distract him from the impending question: why is Will aroused?

His mind is making some distant connection, like an association formed between a Rorschach test and blood splatter patterns. There’s something about the Ripper that’s making him feel this way.

Whatever it is, he can’t figure it out half asleep with hunger distracting him. He stands to bathe before descending the stairs for dinner.

Hannibal is waiting.

 


	2. Associations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god, I really hope this makes sense. 
> 
> In case it isn't clear, this chapter is 3-4 weeks after the first one.

_“You want to quit,” Jack says. “Quit.”_

_And the floor drops out from beneath him. He’s floating through the darkness, memories swirling and shifting—_

_Miriam Lass shudders and dies beneath his finger tips. It really is a pity that she had to die, a girl so young and so brave. She was simply unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Her potential was never fully realized—_

_He rips the tongue from his victim’s mouth. Blood splatters up upon him but his plastic coverings prevent anything from staining his clothing. There will be no evidence—_

_“Did you just smell me?” He demands of the good doctor._

_“Difficult to avoid. I really must introduce you to a better aftershave”—_

_The muscles in his arm strain. He presses down, leaning into the table repetitively, he feels the flesh soften beneath his touch, but still it is not enough. For the meat to fully absorb the tang of the wine, the liver must be tenderized to the maximum—_

_“Just go faster, I need you, I need you.”_

_“Patience is a virtue, William.” It’s too much, everything is too much. Hannibal’s dick, engorged and pulsing inside him, setting his skull afire. He raises himself up on his haunches and prepares to force himself back down, to bury Hannibal as far as he will go, to drag the length of him along the sensitized point of his prostrate. But the man beneath him takes hold of his hips and pushes him to the side, flipping their positions and pinning him to the mattress._

_He groans. With his knees pressed tight against his shoulders, with Hannibal’s added weight, he feels so much fuller. His lover stoops his neck to sink teeth into his—_

_“Well, how do you see me?” He asks, still laughing at the notion that he could be made of fine porcelain._

_“The mongoose I want under the house, when the snakes slither by”—_

“Will?” Hannibal’s voice. “Are you alright? Wake up”—

_He wields the lancet with the same surgical precision that he always has done. The first cut, long and thick is just below the collarbone. With unflinching fingers, he pulls the heart from the cavity. When he takes it in his hand it gives a single, final pulse (the man himself is dying, unable to comprehend what is happing due to copious blood loss and excruciating pain) before fading completely. The tenseness in the body fades with a whimper that is somewhat hysterical, in how misplaced it is. Then he sets it aside in its designated container. The next is shorter, shallow, as he is careful not to slice through the inferior vena cava while retrieving the right kidney. That too, is packed away._

_In the modern age, there are plenty of more convenient tools to use than an antique amputation saw. But he appreciates the steady pull and tug of it, the way it slides through bone just as easily as flesh. Furthermore, the bronze sheen is more than appealing to the eye._ _When he takes up the blade in his hand, it vibrates with malformation due to age. This is expected of course, but he knows from prior use that it will cut just fine._

_He drags the sluggishly bleeding body up the bus’ steep stairs and there he cuts the body in two._

_“I see these things, but they are not my design.”_

 

His eyes open to subtle darkness, breathing shallowly as if emerged from the sea. At first he is not entirely sure where he is—this is not his home. The hand on his shoulder (real, physical contact) is jarring, alarming. It takes a long moment for him to remember who he is with. Then, he realizes his erection.

“Will? Is everything alright?” Hannibal asks calmly. Will can tell, even in the semi-dark, that his eyebrows are raised in question. Concern, though it does not come out in the tone of his voice. A downward tip of his head lets Will know he is _very_ aware of his erection, but, a gentleman even at 6:30 in the morning, says nothing regarding it. He folds something, something vibrating, into the palm of Will’s hand. “Uncle Jack is calling.”

Will answers the call immediately, noting with a bit of fatigued, cranky annoyance that Hannibal uses the detested nickname. He had _lessened_ its use, in the weeks since Will snapped at him.  
“ _Will,”_ Jack says before he can even say good morning. “ _We’ve got a body. We think it’s the Ripper. I need you here.”_

Will parts the phone from his face so he can quietly groan. In his desperation, Jack possesses the tendency to automatically assume every and all somewhat imaginatively displayed corpses are the product of the Ripper’s psyche. Will is becoming a bit tired of constantly needing to endure the mental ramp-up necessary to envision the killer’s work.

“Are you sure?” He asks, knowing Jack won’t be pleased; it’s early for him as well.

“ _Can you just get up here? We’re in a cinema in Southeastern Baltimore. I’ll text you the address. Already cancelled your morning lectures.”_

“Fine.”

“ _And I want Dr. Lecter on the scene, Will. You’ve been too on edge lately and he sets you at ease. Should I call him or will you?”_

Will glances at Hannibal out of the corner of his eye. His lover predictably gives nothing away. “I really don’t think that’s necessary. Besides, he probably has patients coming in or—“

Hannibal takes hold of his wrist and squeezes. Gives him a pointed shake of his head. Will looks imploringly at him for a moment before acquiescing.

“…I’ll call him.” Jack hangs up and Will speaks to Hannibal. “Look, I really don’t need you there. I can deal. Do you really have time to babysit me at Jack’s request?”

“This may be a rare occurrence in which I believe Jack is in the right. My presence undoubtedly aids you, so I see no reason for my absence. I have no appointments until eleven. It should not take more than one hour for you to look over the scene, correct? If we leave now I will be at my office with three hours to spare.”

“No. We’ll need to wait an hour and a half before we leave. So Jack thinks I’ve driven from Virginia.”

“One hour, then. This would not be an issue if you divulged to Jack the truth of our relationship. Are you really so ashamed of me?”

He shoots a glare at his asshole of a boyfriend. “Don’t pretend to be wounded. You have way too much pride for it to be even _moderately_ plausible.”

Hannibal grins and kisses his cheek. How he can be in such a good mood just after waking up is beyond Will. “A man can try.”

 

In the time before their departure, Hannibal creates an extravagant breakfast to share. A _quiche Lorraine_ paired with creamy goat’s cheese and berries. Will insists it is too extravagant (largely due to the fact that the impending case is making him feel ill), but Hannibal intones that he intended on refusing him departure until he ate, regardless of any appointments or classes either of them had.

_Typical._

In addition to their breakfast, Hannibal prepares leftover _rilletes_ and sliced French bread for their individual lunches. The meal was made as taster for a dinner party Hannibal will be throwing the following Friday. One of many courses, apparently. The dish was a triumph, according to Hannibal, though Will likely would have been unable to discern the difference between a success and a failure. Why Hannibal puts up with his utter lack of culture, he will never know.

Before Will has the chance to climb into his car, Hannibal pins him up against the door. Presses his lips against the base of Will’s neck, where the fabric _mostly_ covers, and sucks until a large love-bite forms. The position of it is awkward, so Will is unable to see it, even out of the corner of his eyes, but when the fabric falls flat it will rub against the mark and he will feel it. And be reminded Hannibal.

“You were aroused when you awoke,” Hannibal whispers against the enflamed skin. The comment comes out of nowhere, throws him entirely off balance.

“I…had a sex dream about you,” he says, referring to the altered dream-memory of Will riding Hannibal, from a few weeks earlier. There, that’s half-true, at least. Hannibal pulls away and forces him to look into his eyes and Will _knows_ he knows. Knows about the nightmare and the blood he saw and experienced with his own hands. But he still says nothing. Not for the first time, Will wonders how he, socially inept and emotionally unavailable, nabbed a guy as perfect as Hannibal.

“Pity there was no time to reenact it.”

Two images flash through his mind: the first of Hannibal pinning him violently to the bed, dick buried inside him, the second of hands wet with the blood, sliding against skin. In the context of the second image, Will is unsure which belongs to who. He wishes desperately Hannibal hadn’t said such a thing, but the anxiousness falls away when their lips press together again, long and hard. Then, they move into their separate vehicles and drive, Will leading the way.

He loves Hannibal.

It’s the truth, though it feels too early to say it aloud. It may be long beyond the point that _ordinary_ couples would exchange such words, but the idea that Will and Hannibal, as a pair, are normal is nothing short of ridiculous.

Will ponders on this as he drives, wonders why he and Hannibal can’t seem to function as they should. Will would like to chock it up to his own destructive psyche, but if that were the case, why would Hannibal not seek a more suitable companion?

In actuality, he and Hannibal are remarkably well-matched, though not in any way easily explicable. They balance one another. Will is out of control and Hannibal is in control; Will is broken and Hannibal is whole.

Will glances in the rearview mirror. Sees nothing but the outline of Hannibal’s face and feels devastatingly desolate. Strange, since he has a lover that cooked a delicious breakfast for him and is now going to work with him.

It is not a long drive to the cinema from Hannibal’s home. Will knows they are approaching thanks to the overt flashing lights of the cop cars as well as the occasional siren. He feels a headache coming on. Such pageantry attracts crap-journalists like Freddie Lounds and Will _really_ does not want to deal with that.

He parks between two vehicles and Hannibal parks directly behind him. Will lingers, as he tends to do. Is aware that people are waiting for him and that Hannibal is patiently standing beside his car. It takes a large amount of self-control to push the door open and give his doctor (not his lover) a thin smile. Even though he knows the man can see right through it.

They walk side by side to the police tape, where an officer recognizes Will and lifts it for them both. Jack awaits them inside.

“Will, Dr. Lecter,” he greets them when they approach. He then speaks directly to Hannibal, “I apologize for calling you here. I hoped you could help Will a bit.”

“I am happy to provide aid wherever possible.” Polite, as always, though lined in coolness that even Jack could not possibly overlook. That Hannibal has asked the head of the FBI’s BSU to withdraw Will from the field is not secret to anyone present. Jack leads the way to the crime scene, babbling about the cinema night janitor that found the body and when the CSI’s believed time of death is—sometime during the prior afternoon or perhaps the early evening. It was a Sunday (typical of a family-run establishment), and the theater closed early and _no_ , no one moved anything.

He opens the door and motions to Will to enter first. It would seem polite, had he not stepped in front of Hannibal to enter next. Will recognizes it as impatience.

For all the crime scene tape and CSIs mulling about the room, Will does not even realize there has been a murder until he see a pair of eyes sitting on the stage. Gazing blankly across the room. This cinema as a whole is not particularly large, mostly devoted to independent, artsy films, that Will would never care to watch and Hannibal would completely _adore,_ he’s sure. This particular theater only likely seats around forty people. The chairs are all on their last leg and the screen itself appears frayed along the edges.

The building as a whole feels like a remnant of days gone by, a vessel to house the nostalgia of the old and the old-minded. It seems to have been hit hard by the overzealous attitude of the modern film-industry.

Will knows this location could only have been chosen for those reasons.

“What do you think? Is it the Ripper?” Jack’s voice is both hopeful and sullen, as Will circles to the front of the room. He glances towards the agent only fractionally before turning back to the crime scene. Pushes his glasses up his nose and minimizes the grimace that comes across his face.

Will takes a short moment to take everything in. Eyes taken skillfully from their sockets. Whoever cut the nerve knew to do so as close to the eye itself. If Will tilts his head he can see the blood pooled inside the skull. None spilled down the face. The victim wears jeans, but no shirt. An incision beside the stomach indicates a removed spleen, Will assumes, but he would need to ask Zeller to be completely sure. The man’s shoulders have also been sliced across—or perhaps _carved_ is the better word. The killer cut around the shoulder blades, pulling as much flesh and muscle from the bone as possible, while still keeping the arms attached. Everything is done with care.

Disregarding Jack’s stare, and trying very hard to keep that of Hannibal out of his mind, Will takes a step back and considers what he knows about the Ripper. He knows the Ripper takes organs, as some sort of trophy. He knows the Ripper uses murder as a method of creation.

He also knows that if this truly is the work of the Chesapeake Ripper, the choice of location (and even the choice of victim and murder technique) is less indicative than exhibition-orientated. The Chesapeake Ripper considers himself to be (and is) an artist, first and foremost. The components may be chosen with the same care a painted would choose his pallet, but ultimately it is the end product, the design, that speaks to Will.

This…whatever this is, with the shoulders, is new and Will is unsure how to explain it. But, with that exception, everything points to the Ripper.

He speaks slowly, responding to Jack’s question. “I…would say so…”

Jack exhales, though Will cannot fathom why. This kill would be the first of a cycle of murders ranging between six and ten occurring over the next week or so. None of them would carry any useful evidence and at the end of the cycle Jack would be more angry than before.

“Can you…can you give me some space?” Will requests, looking at the door. His throat closes up when Jack shakes his head.

“No, Will. I want Dr. Lecter supervising you and I can’t leave non-FBI personnel at a crime scene without my supervision.”

He feels Hannibal’s eyes on him, though he refuses to return the gaze, and itches his hand over his collarbone, where the bite mark continues to ache. _Fine,_ he would like to bite out at the both of them, but instead he turns to look at the body, removes his glasses, and closes his eyes.

The pendulum swings.

 

_A set of eyes, detached from their owner to watch his death occur across the room. It would have been easy to simply crush the eyes in the skull, with his thumbs. It would have been easy to scoop them out with a scalpel. He does not do ‘easy’—_

_“We both know the unreality of taking a life,” Hannibal says. “Of people who die when we have no other choice”—_

_Instead, the eyes are pulled carefully from the sockets with surgical prongs, the optic nerve cut away at the base of the disk, creating as perfect a shape as possible. There is no blood and he is careful to ensure his hands do not mold the form._

_“I place the eyes upon the raised stage, where the movie-goer would gaze. If the eyes still possessed the gift of sight, he would watch himself die.”_

_It takes two long, curved cuts down his victim’s chest, to the juncture of the arm and shoulder, to separate the necessary flesh from the rest of him. He dies a pained, terrified death, with blood pouring from the chest cavity onto the floor. Some may consider it wasteful, to leave so much behind, but to him this is all the man is worth—_

_Hannibal’s fingers prod his temple, dragging him from the dream. A smile is on his face, only barely visible in the dark. He does not have time to ask how his boyfriend’s evening was before their lips press together, chewing and sucking at flesh and bone._

_As if Hannibal pressed a button somewhere upon his body, he is erect, body interested in the proceedings even when his mind is not fully awake. Teeth graze his neck and, in the post-sleep haze, time skips forward. Hannibal is inside him, pounding against his insides as Will holds on to the lapels of the man’s coat._

_“I love you,” he cries out as orgasm rips across him—_

But that never happened. None of this is real. His mind is regularly unpredictable, even more so in moments like these, but these strange, somewhat fabricated flashbacks are out of the norm. Even for him. There’s a knot in his stomach, beginning to unwind. An undesired epiphany rushing up on him _—_

_If a man possesses the worth of a beast bred to feed, worthless in life, who is he to deny its slaughter?_

_“I alone recognize this man for what he is—a pig. His ultimate addition to my table is a blessing, truly.” Will’s voice is accented, laced with foreign fervor that has simultaneously nothing and everything to do with the act._

_The beauty of the composition is not deranged. It is not an effort for him to attain something long misunderstood or lost. This is proof of culture, a song of pride that echoes through each movement made._

_“I place the meat aside for later, taking no more than I desire. The remainder will act as a display to those who seek me out.”_

_Ridiculous. As if the canine imbeciles could so much as suspect the truth of his identity—_

_“Do you have trouble with taste?”_

_“My thoughts are often not tasty.”_

_“Nor mine”—_

_The taste of the meat. Bled. Chopped into pieces. Salted and cooked in fat. Pulverized to paste. Served with bread and with broccoli sprouts. The taken flesh would not provide very much, but it would suffice—_

Will knows this taste.

He tries to pull away, tries to make himself believe that this isn’t real, that he’s making associations that could not possibly be legitimate, but it doesn’t work. Hannibal’s bite mark itches on his shoulder and his subconscious aches for the truth to be knows. Pulls him back—

_He feels it, then. Many long moments after the victim perishes. The ultimate pleasure, the ultimate experience of holding a self-sustaining being, a life in the palm of his hand—_

_“We know, in those moments, they are not flesh. But light and air, and color.”_

_—and crushing it. Letting it run through his fingers and fall to the floor. Utter destruction. Exquisite. Addictive. While not necessary, it is a pleasure that he allows himself out of self-appreciation, rather than lack of self-control—_

_“Isn’t that what it is to be alive?”_

_“Do you feel alive, Will?”—_

_“And I love you, William.” The man, his doctor, his lover, his_ everything, _surges forward one final time to spill his seed. He can feel tears at his eyes, aches to wipe them away, but such an action would involve separating his fingers from Hannibal’s broad chest. Hannibal kisses them away—_

_“You and I are just alike”—_

_He—FBI Special Investigator Will Graham—Dr. Hannibal Lecter—in this moment they are one in the same—lowers himself to a seat a bit away from the corpse of his victim. Appreciates his work with full knowledge that the dogs chasing him would destroy it, come daybreak. Shatter the experience of it entirely. An idea, simple and inevitable, does take some of the bite out of the inevitable: the existence of one other able to understand it._

_And understand it he shall._

_“This is my design.”_

 

Will opens his eyes. 


	3. Death Drive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kind messages and comments :)

Tears are streaming down his face. For a long moment, he stands frozen, as if moving will make the truth petrifyingly tangible. He holds his breath, grips his hands into fists. Aches, all the while, to press one hand against his _aching_ cock—which suddenly, horrifyingly makes sense, as do all of his erections over the past weeks. His hand raises uncontrollably to the base of his neck, to run the nail of his thumb along the bruise. He can feel their eyes on him. Jack and—

He snaps his face towards the man, his doctor, his lover, before he can stop himself. Only then does his breath return to him, rushing out with unmanageable force.

He wonders what was so different about this time, this crime scene. Thinking back cursorily Will can remember the accumulated bodies (subsequent with the last dinner party, oh _god_ ) and the named organs Hannibal served. What did Hannibal say the _Rilletes_ were made from?

 _Pork shoulder._ And he remembers the smooth texture. Comprehends with terribly clear eyes that the meat came from the body before him. Bile stings at his throat, the liquid likely having previously mingled with the DNA and evidence and essentially all that would be necessary to close the case of the Chesepeake Ripper.

_There is a crime scene rotting away in my stomach._

Will has had crime scenes decompose inside him before, they loiter in his soul for months and slowly corrupt the works of his mind. As it turns out, this has been physically true for months. The times his boyfri—Hannibal has fed him are innumerable.

Hannibal’s face is blank, at least outwardly, but now Will has seen him, has _really_ seen him, and he can never hide again. Every subtle twitch is an attestation to the sickness buried inside him. The look of betrayal comes too potent on Will’s face; Hannibal raises an eyebrow.

Jack, right on cue, clears his throat and Will whips around to look at him. Uses the shield of his glasses to hide the tears from Jack, as best he can. But Hannibal’s face, as seen in that first moment of clarity, is burned into his eyelids.

“Well?”

“I…I’m not…” What is he doing? He has to tell Jack, _now_ , while the Chesapeake Ripper is vulnerably in their wake (as if Hannibal is ever vulnerable). _The evidence is in his car._

He feels sick. His stomach roils and his throat is closing up. He needs to go to the bathroom, cry and empty his stomach. He cannot find the words to express this so he just goes, despite the awkward obviousness of his erection. He is glad to find that it is just outside the theater and makes sure to lock the door behind him.

He is crying before he reaches the stall. In the toilet, he empties his stomach and even _that_ does not make his cock soften. When the sickness subsides he stands and unbuckles his belt, draws his dick out without any real forethought. As his thumb skims along a thick vein the thought of Hannibal’s teeth on his neck comes unbidden. The guilt makes him cry harder.

He is unable to recall another time he was this much a mess. It is as if every part of his body is at odds with another. Everything is out of sync, out of touch with reality.

For about an hour, Will sits in the bathroom. He cycles between crying and a strange calmness, during which he is able to convince himself that Hannibal _isn’t_ the Chesapeake Ripper, that he couldn’t possibly be. Then he catches sight of the un-flushed vomit floating in the toilet and he realizes how much of an idiot he is. That this is what made it so simple for Dr. Lecter to manipulate him.

 _Never again_ , Will swears to himself as he finally stands. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do. Not yet. But he knows he shan’t fall prey to Hannibal’s clever tongue. Not now.  

It is easy to ignore his lack of conviction, standing alone in a bathroom.

“Will, are you alright?” Hannibal asks quietly from the right, when he opens the door. He nearly jumps, the man’s presence is such a shock. He must have been standing there for the last hour, waiting for him to emerge. How kind of Hannibal to ask, to worry for Will’s wellbeing. _For a given value of ‘kind,’ when you are a serial killer fucking the man trying to catch you._ He needs to get away from this, from the situation he’s been caught in, like a fly in a web.

“Yes, I—I’m fine. Go to your meeting. I’ll be fine here.” What is he _doing?_ He is sending the Ripper away, when he’s the man they are looking for. He should be _telling_ _Jack_ so Hannibal can be arrested. _Always returns to the scene of the_ crime, that bullshit cliché runs through his head. Likely the first time in all of history that those words have actually rang true.  Hannibal’s eyes do not leave his face for so much as an instant.

“Very well,” Hannibal says. Will suppresses a sigh of relief. “But you should eat. I brought our dinner from last night.”

At this point, Will would have to be an idiot to not see the words for what they are: a test. To either confirm or deny if Will has truly figured everything out.

Will considers this. Imagines taking the food and eating a couple bites in front of Hannibal. The thought of consuming the victim of a case _while visiting the crime scene_ is horrifying, but doing so would mean pretending none of this is true. He and Hannibal could continue on. Will would be living a lie, but he could get used to it.

He’s already become used to so many things.

Hannibal takes hold of his wrist (Will forces himself not to flinch out the hold) and presses the plastic box into it.

All of an instant passes before the strength goes from Will’s hand; the food falls to the floor. He doesn’t look at Hannibal’s face, stares at his feet and tries to imagine what his face looks like. It isn’t difficult, with his ‘empathy disorder’ as Hannibal (and only Hannibal) calls it. _Eyebrows at normal height, lips quirked to the right in tight annoyance, nostrils barely flared to feign surprise._ Will has seen the look before, made assumptions about the reason for it. No assumptions are necessary this time.

Will looks up.

Hannibal isn’t even looking at him. His eyes are fixed on the discarded food between their feet. None of it spilled, but the way Hannibal is looking at it, it may as well have.

_His masterpiece._

A few moments after Will begins to watch him, Hannibal’s eyes flick up. Whatever Will _thought_ he saw in the good doctor’s face, back in the theater, was apparently a trick of the light. Or perhaps a fabrication formed by Will’s breaking psyche; that seems to be a common occurrence today. Because there is essentially _nothing_ to be found in the man’s face. It is blank, unreadable, and not what Will anticipated before he looked.

The truth of his facial expression makes Will visibly tense. Makes him realize that he could have a million conversations with Hannibal, during which the man tells not a single lie and he still would not know him. He still would not so much as scratch the surface. Even knowing his second identity makes no difference. This knowledge makes Will strangely bitter and he finds that he is unable to trace the sensation within his mentality.

Contrasting feelings come up one him—one to gain vengeance against a man that has single-handedly ruined him, another to talk to him. Figure out what they’re going to do about this situation. The second is impossible to hold down—Hannibal has been, for lack of a better term, his _life-partner_ for weeks, months now. If he can’t talk to him, who can he talk to?

A pulse of painful, heart-crushing loneliness, shoots through his spine.

_I can’t do this._

Will turns on his heel and walks back to the crime scene. What Hannibal does once his back is turned, he does not know, and he forces himself not to ponder on it. 

 

The time following is about as bad as some of Will’s nightmares.

When Will returns to Crawford’s side the man shoots him an annoyed look. Annoyed that he would rush out of the crime scene before discussing what he knows.

“What was that all about?” He asks loudly. Will rolls his shoulders. The last thing he wants to do is take his stress out on Agent Jack Crawford. The consequences would not be pleasant.

“Food poisoning,” is the excuse he gives. After pondering on the words for a moment (thinking back on the food he’s eaten), _they_ make him feel sick, and he grimaces. To qualm the sensation he adds, “Or something.”

Jack doesn’t care one way or another. He’s…tolerable most of the time, but anything having to do with the Ripper makes him unmanageable. “Is there anything you would like to tell me, Will?”

The question throws Will’s already drained mind off balance. He still hasn’t decided how to proceed. He knows what he _should_ do. But…

He remembers the conclusion he came to while driving to the scene. It was less than two hours earlier, but it feels like part of another lifetime. He also remembers the memory born as he pulled the Ripper’s identity from the corpse. The memory of them exchanging words of affection. It feels real, even now, though he knows consciously it never actually happened. There is no doubt about it.

It’s like when he _remembers_ killing someone that he couldn’t have possibly killed. The memory may not be real, but it still affects him by how legitimacy of its feeling.

Childishly, he blames Hannibal for the fake memory. He imagines the manipulator hypnotizing him into loving him, into trusting him. He imagines him practicing terrible, horrifyingly effective psychiatry with all the skill of a god. Perfectly able to form and un-form Will as he wishes.

He hates himself. He’s felt such things towards himself before, but the number of occurrences had substantially declined after he and Hannibal became a… couple. Now, the feeling returns tenfold. As if punishing for every moment he felt he was worth two cents.

“I need to go,” Will says. He feels that his actions are not his own, like Hannibal has flooded his being and taken utter control of him. Jack narrows his eyes. The agent starts to say something biting, no doubt intended to guilt-trip him into staying, but Will speaks first. “No. I’m sick. I need to leave. I’m sorry.”

Will turns on his heel again. A bit of nausea comes at the motion. He is glad to see, upon entering the parking lot outside that most of the police cars are gone, as is Hannibal’s.

Once seated in the driver’s seat of his beat-up car, he withdraws his phone and sees a message alerting him of a voicemail from the _last_ person he wants to hear from. He raises the phone to his ear to listen, despite himself.

_“Will. When you have finished at the crime scene, please come by my office. I will make time for you. No matter who I am having a session with. You are more important.”_

_Lies._ All lies. Will tosses the phone into the passenger seat with a dry, heaving sob and forces the key into the ignition. He needs to get out of here.

He does not even consider going to Hannibal’s office, is overtly aware of the danger _that_ presents. Instead he gets on the interstate heading south and drives home to Wolftrap. He feels raw the whole way there. He turns the radio on and listens to terrible pop music, pushing the volume up until his ears ring in pain.

He speeds and the trip takes half the time. In truth, he’s lucky to not be pulled over and questioned. He tells himself, throughout the journey, that if he is pulled over by a cop, he’ll tell them everything.

He does not see a single police car after pulling out of the crime scene.

It is almost comforting, when he pulls into his driveway and hears the familiar yelps of dogs, sees their faces in the window. Happy to see him. Opening the door, he experiences a brief moment of comfort as his hand scratches against their ears. He takes the time to feed them, to play ball with them outside, and then walk with them through the woods.

His stomach, emptied earlier, aches to eat, but he dry swallows and thinks he may have a panic attack just at the idea of swallowing something physical.

When he and his pack return home, Will opens the refrigerator. It is mostly empty, with the exception of a few Tupperware full of leftovers Hannibal sent him home with over the past week or so. He opens one.

 _Cassoulet_ , cooked with what Hannibal _said_ was pork. That is less than likely, in hindsight. He throws the whole box in the garbage. One after another he withdraws the boxes of food and tosses them into the garbage can.

About halfway through, he opens a container of seared ‘lamb’ shank, marinated in brown sugar and balsamic vinegar and remembers how he and Hannibal sat close to one another while they ate. Remembers the way Hannibal lifted his own fork to Will’s mouth, and kissed his throat as he swallowed. It wasn’t the first time, nor the last, that he made such an action.

Will assumed it was a mild kink related to Will consuming something Hannibal made. The truth makes him feel dirty. Expended.

Will kneels on the floor with the open Tupperware and cries again. When Winston and Hanna come and tries to eat from the box he shoos them.

At four in the afternoon, while he is still kneeling on the kitchen floor, his cell phone rings in his pocket. He doesn’t take it out, but feels in his gut that the chef himself is calling. A few seconds after the blaring stops, it vibrates to alert him of another voicemail. He listens.

“ _Dinner will be at seven this evening. I look forward to—“_

Before the message can finish playing, Will throws his cell across the room. It makes impact with the wall and crumples into pieces of plastic and metal and technology on the floor. Useless. Will stands and moves away from the fridge, leaving the door wide open to leak cold air, and rushes into his living room.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his jacket and gun holster hanging messily beside the door. He crosses and takes hold of it loosely before sitting in an old, sun-tanned arm chair. His arms are shaking, his mind scrolling through the endless possibilities for the conclusion of this situation. There are too many to count, none of them reasonable, none of them pleasurable.

Why didn’t he take the _Rilletes_ from Hannibal?

Why didn’t he tell Jack the identity of the Ripper? His cell phone may be destroyed, but he still has a landline. It would hardly be a hassle to call the BSU and get dispatched the Jack’s cellphone.

He think’s of the Ripper’s—of Hannibal’s opinion of the man killed in the cinema. He thinks of the utter disdain held for the man’s life. He was _worthless_ in his eyes. If that man, a man that likely had a life and family and _friends_ aside from the cannibalistic serial-killer psychologist, was worthless, what does that make Will?

What does all of this say about him? The fact that the only person deigning to spend a moment on him outside of necessity, willing to share meals and sentiments, kisses and passions, is a monster. It makes despair curl up in his belly, like an icy, murderous snake. It makes his psyche fray at the edges, as if chafed by sandpaper.

_Am I really this worthless?_

He takes the weapon in hand, even as he knows there are no threats around. But a thought is slowly birthing in his skull. An idea.

_Call Agent Jack Crawford. Tell him, voice raw, that Dr. Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper. Advise them to take a SWAT team to his home and search the man’s refrigerator. Hang up before Jack can ask more questions._

_Put the gun in my mouth._

Any easy death. One without any guilt for the lives lost and those that could be lost. He would be remembered a hero (and hopefully people would look past his and Dr. Lecter’s relationship).

But still so, so much guilt. Will thinks about Hannibal’s front door being broken down as he slices and sears human flesh into an unrecognizable form, for Will himself to consume. As he creates art from corpses. Hannibal being led out of his house at gunpoint. Hannibal being pressed up against a SWAT truck and handcuffed. Hannibal, the man he _loves_ (oh, _god,_ does he hate himself) brought to prison and made to stand trial. Jailed for eternity.

And it would be his fault. The thought of his boyfriend in prison is terrifying, even with the comfort that he would be dead and the knowledge that prison is where he _deserves to be._

The thought of doing anything for the sake of _heroism_ leaves an actively bad taste on his tongue.

_Call Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Interrupt him when he asks when I’ll be arriving for dinner. Apologize for being weak. For not being enough to make him change. Ignore his pleading and hang up. Put the gun in my mouth._

And the Ripper lives to kill again. And again. And again.

He’s choking, sobbing, unable to discern an even remotely preferable option. He clicks the safety off and presses the muzzle against his teeth. The metal is cool against his lips, having been sitting beside the door for hours, where the heating is less effective. Opening his mouth wider he feels the trigger guard collide with his canines.

He flexes his finger against the trigger, imagining how simple it would be. His mind has never been a sanctuary, never for so much as a moment, and the idea of clearing that all away feels almost— _blissful_. His eyes are already closed, making it easier as he cannot see his dogs circling the room, napping and romping about. If he clears his mind, lets the white noise around him take over, he can almost pretend that he’s already dead.

His insides certainly feel raw enough.

He sits like that for hours. The daylight thriving on the other side of his eyelids fades with the setting sun. Seven o’clock comes and goes.

Eventually, he stands and puts the gun and his discarded holster on the coffee table near the fireplace. He collapses into the old, dog-stained couch. Winston licks one of his toes.

Will wonders why he didn’t take up Hannibal’s invitation to go to his office. Let Hannibal finish the job where he cannot.

_He already has my heart, after all. His consumption of the rest of me wouldn’t be so bad…_

He wonders what Hannibal is doing, in this moment. The victim today was the first of the Ripper’s cycle. No doubt he is out there killing someone right now.

The doorbell rings; Will’s eyes go blind in terror.

 _He’s here._ _Here to kill me._ The front door opens and Will wonders why he even bothered ringing the doorbell.

 _Always the gentleman._ The lights flick on. Dogs rush from Will’s side to Hannibal, happy to see the trusted outsider even if their pack leader is not.

“Will. I expected you for dinner.” His voice is only barely lined with annoyance. Will closes his eyes for a split second before turning to look at Hannibal. He stands to face him.

“I never said I would be there.” Hannibal’s upper lips twitches up in a light smile. Humoring him and his rudeness.

“That is true, I suppose. Though, I believed it to be a part of our established routine.” As he speaks, he leans down and brushes his fingers across a dog’s scalp. Will wants to scream at him to not touch his dogs. “That we dine together, I mean.”

Hannibal takes a step towards him and Will suddenly feels horribly like prey faced with a predator. He can tell from the slightest of slight glints, born in Hannibal’s eyes, that he feels the same of the current situation.

By some miracle, some twist of fate, or maybe Hannibal allowed him to remain just a few steps ahead, Will evades capture and reaches his gun holster on the other side of the room. In a movement of such fluidity that could only belong to a former police officer, willing to shoot or not, Will points the gun at the doctor.

“Ah, so you do know the truth.”

From his tone, Will can tell that while his actions act as a confirmation, there was never any real doubt in Hannibal’s mind.

“Of _course_ I know the _truth_ ,” he spits out.

“It did not escape my notice that I was not arrested during any of my sessions today.” There is hope in his voice. He has voiced the one thing Will feels as if he would dissipate if forced to discuss it. For what must be the thousandth time, Will asks himself why he did not turn Hannibal in.

“I want you to leave.” His voice quivers like a lake during a rain storm. Lightning could strike it at any moment.

“Will, calm yourself. Your hands are shaking.” He’s right. Even if he pulled the trigger it would hit the ceiling or _god forbid_ one of his dogs. Will runs his hand through his hair, switching the safety back onto the gun.

Hannibal is on him before he can even lower the weapon. In an instant, he is against the wall, Hannibal’s hand digging into the base of his neck.

 _Stupid, stupid_ , Will chides himself. He opens his mouth to scream but Hannibal quickly covers it with the palm of his hand.

“Hush. We do not want to disturb your neighbors, William. It is becoming late.”

Will throws his arm to the side, attempting to swing his fist against Hannibal’s head. It is facilely captured, a knee placed against his groin; an admonishment against trying the same with his other arm. Hannibal tuts at him, disapproving and Will tries to turn his neck out of the grip, to no avail. Entrapment is his current reality.

Slowly, his attacker works to pry his fingers off the gun. Where there is the absence of a spare hand, the man uses his hips to keep him in place. Once he succeeds, Will feels his body turned and molded, manipulated by the most skilled of puppeteers, so that they both move to the couch. Seated, Hannibal pulls his hand from Will’s face. He pretends not to notice the man wipe excess saliva on his perfectly tailored trousers. Unseemly.

Will has yet to meet his eyes, having kept them fixed on something less interesting and less lethal across the room. Hannibal obviously desires to rectify this. Takes hold of Will’s chin and murmurs, “Look at me, William.”

He obeys. This is all uncharted waters. Before, when Hannibal asked for Will’s attention, he obeyed out of courtesy towards his psychiatrist, then his friend, then his significant other. But this isn’t Hannibal—it’s the Chesapeake Ripper.

At least, that’s what Will tells himself. Because even though he _knows_ what’s inside the man, knows the design of the monster hiding beneath an immaculate exterior, all he can see is Hannibal. It’s like he’s blind to all else.

_Quite the predicament you’ve gotten yourself into this time, Will._

Hannibal’s eyes are dark as ever, with maroon-ish tinges and flecks that glow and come alive under the lighting of Will’s home. Abysmal and bottomless and utterly unreadable.

“Well,” Hannibal begins. He pauses for a long moment before he continues, choosing his language carefully as he always does. “I must admit that I underestimated you, William.”

Will’s jaw tenses and he looks away for a split second before repeating, “ _Underestimated_ ,” as if to test it on his lips. It sounds ridiculous.

“I thought it would take you longer to connect the dots,” the Ripper clarifies. “Tell me, was it something specific or were you simply auspicious? I doubt I made a mistake…”

Will doesn’t want to talk about this. Doesn’t want to consider exactly _what it was_ that made his entire world shatter over a period of about two minutes.

So, instead, he says, “Luck.”

Blatant in his disbelief, Hannibal cocks his head at Will. Will thinks about how less than twenty-four hours they were likely cuddling and sharing light kisses after a tender copulation. Oh, how the winds change.

Will looks away again, temporarily vulnerable—or, _more_ vulnerable. Hannibal seizes the moment and lunges forward, catches the back of Will’s neck and presses their lips together. Surprise freezes him, for a long time. Then, he can’t help but lean into the man’s broad chest, open his mouth just so, so a tongue can slip gently inside and—Will forces himself away. Pleads nonsensically for Hannibal to _not touch him_ , but it is to no avail. Despite his arms’ resistance stronger arms pull him back, into a bone crushing hold that makes his muscles cramp and strain.

He bites into Hannibal’s lower lip. Not enough to break the skin, even a little, just enough to warn him (it is a weak threat), because Will has no other weapon at his disposal. Nothing can stifle his scream when Hannibal bites back, _hard._ More than enough to break the skin, Will feels the wet, metallic blood on his tongue, vibrant and unnerving. With wide eyes he sees the look of pure ecstasy on Hannibal’s face and remembers all the times he sucked on Will’s bloody wounds.

Before this morning, Will could have easily said that his days, his hours, with Hannibal Lecter were the best of his life. Now, everything is poisoned. Nothing will ever be the same and Will feels as if he has been ripped of all structure and support previously possessed. With newfound strength, he shoves himself away, and falls to the floor.

 “You were all I had. I _trusted you,_ ” he says before even realizing that his lips are moving. Hannibal was meant to be his paddle, his gauge on reality. If that stability is no longer his (never was his), then how could he do anything but fall into the abyss? Hiccups burn at the inside of his throat. “You _lied—lied to me…”_

He is all but wailing, eyes blurrily locked on his gun to his left, two short steps away. Blood flows from his lips onto his tongue and he gags. Hannibal follows him onto the beaten hardwood, dog hair already sticking to his trousers and jacket. He looks nothing like himself, kneeling on the dirty floor.

“I can’t—can’t do this.” None of this is _worth it._ It isn’t worth the energy and it _really_ isn’t worth the pain. There’s a way out, and Will’s been tiptoeing around it all day.

_No more._

Will continues to cry, desperate in his desire for it to end, as he moves across the floor. When he takes up the gun again, he does not point it at Hannibal, points it at himself instead. It would be so easy to just pull the trigger and let all of this fall away into oblivion.

Hannibal looks shocked by this course of action and Will takes a miniscule amount of pleasure from the fact that he has managed to shock _the mastermind_. Suicide obviously does not top the list of ways he envisions Will Graham’s life ending (and it is likely quite the detailed list).

But it matters not—he can’t. The fear takes hold of him, the fear that is not necessarily his own, is more likely another souvenir from one of the many serial killers he has inhabited over the past months. The fear of death, not potent enough to be unable to bring it about himself, but not too much to shy from it completely.

He lets the gun fall to the floor again. When Hannibal arrives at his side, kneeling down at his level, Will takes hold of his wrists, thumbs pressing lightly, so as to not cause offense, in his palms, and brings them up to his neck. He considers, briefly, picking up the gun and offering it up, his life as tribute, but he _knows the Chesapeake Ripper._ Knows that a gun is too fast, too violent. Tasteless.

“I couldn’t—couldn’t tell Jack…” Will confesses. “I couldn’t tell anyone. I couldn’t _betray you_ , I—”

He feels as if, of all his sins, real or imaginary, this is the most terrible. Gifts the truth of his wrongs to his god, the devil, Hannibal. He lets out a long, quivering breath.

“I can’t do this—just—“ Will’s choking on his words and Hannibal isn’t even squeezing yet. “Just do what you came here to do. _Please._ ”

_Kill me._

There’s a classic, barely considered, psychological theory that was developed by Sigmund Freud in 1920. It is known as ‘Death Drive’, _Todestrieb_ , in German, and it pushes the concept that all organic life possesses an innate desire to return to an inanimate state. In this moment, Will wants nothing more than to be inanimate. To experience _Thanatos_. Death.

_Freedom._

He looks at Hannibal. If the man is conflicted, he doesn’t show it.

“ _Please_ ,” he repeats the appeal, silently. Saving his strength for the other side.

Will is not even fully aware that he is being choked until he tries to take a breath and cannot do so. He wants to close his eyes, but he doesn’t, because he wants _Hannibal_ —his greatest sin—his greatest love—his greatest _mistake_ —to be the last thing he sees. Rather than some fabrication of a stag, stalking him, or his hand driving a knife into the throat of Abigail Hobbs.

He shakes, throat contracting in excruciating pain, peripheral vision narrowing and disappearing entirely. He thinks about mouthing the words ‘I love you’, but does not have the chance or the commitment to do so before everything fades to black. 


	4. Ego

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, guys. (I may have forgotten to post the last chapter... Oopsies) Enjoy.  
> Also, sorry that I didn't make it clear enough that there was a fourth chapter. But... I guess I got the reaction I wanted out of the last chapter because of that?

He isn’t dead. Not even close. His heart beats slow from forced unconsciousness, rather than the fast tempo that would normally accompany his regular sleep due to the nightmares. A pain across his skull, a dull headache, tells him that Hannibal strangled him only until he passed out. He _is_ a doctor; the differentiation would not have been difficult.

He’s tied down, wrists handcuffed above his head, he discovers when he flexes his arms. This is less of a surprise than the fact he is still alive. When he opens his eyes, he fails to see the reasoning behind this—Hannibal stands vigil over his sleeping form. What the necessity for his restraint is, he does not know. It makes even less sense when he attempts to shift and pain flares up in his bones. He couldn’t run even if he tried.

He lays in a bed and is instantly assaulted by textures and smells that do not belong to his own home. _Hannibal’s place._ How long was he out? Long enough for Hannibal to drive him back up to Baltimore, apparently. The emotional strain must have exhausted him enough to keep him unconscious for longer. Or perhaps he was drugged.

“What am I doing here?” He demands, voice gravelly and sore. Still, fatigue hangs off his every word. He feels both angry and relieved of his still-beating heart. The despair from earlier remains, in a lesser quantity. He can’t help but feel offended that Hannibal would dare to bring him here, where they shared so many intimate moments. All lies.

Though, a worry pulls at the edge of his mind, firm and uncertain, that Hannibal has brought him here to torture him, to rip his organs from his body and consume them. That is what the Chesapeake Ripper would do, right? Will finds little solace in the knowledge that his body will not be displayed somewhere, turned to homicidal fine art. Hannibal has no reason to mock Will.

It is with the image of his heart in Hannibal’s oven that Will flinches when slender fingers brush along his scalp. As if gaging his temperature.   

“You know how I dislike the sheets you use,” he says with a faint smile. And _god_ the sentence is so _Hannibal_ , so resonant of their relationship and everything they were before it all turned to poison. He wants to cry. Tears already sting at his eyes, but he manages to push the heat back with rapid blinks. Hannibal appears more or less pleased with his show of self-control.

“I admit, it is sometimes difficult for me to discern what is happening inside that beautiful mind of yours,” Hannibal murmurs, lowering himself into a chair, displaced from the corner of the room to sit beside the bed. “So, in case you are worrying, I would like to put your mind at ease. I brought you here to talk to you. What will happen after, even I do not know.”

 _Slaughter isn’t off the table, then._ Hannibal lowers his chin at him, expectantly. Will grimaces in response and flexes his feet—they are bare, but Hannibal removed no other clothing.

“What is there to _talk_ about?” He isn’t being difficult—at least, not _only_ being difficult. He imagined that they were done talking when he ‘succeeded’ in getting Hannibal to ‘kill’ him. He was mistaken.

“We may be more now, but I was first and foremost your therapist, albeit not formally. Yesterday must have been traumatic for—“ Will cuts him off to laugh, not caring how _rude_ he is. He honestly cannot believe that this is happening, that his lover is attempting to council him following the epiphany that _he himself_ is a serial killer. It is very nearly surreal.

Hannibal pauses, waiting for Will to explain his reaction, obviously unwilling to speak until he does. Will says, “ _Yes._ It was very traumatic, Dr. Lecter.”

“You said that I ‘lied to you’. Could you pinpoint exactly what you were referring to?”

Perhaps this is another sort of torture. It’s believable—Hannibal is very aware of the disconnect between Will’s mind and his body. If he assailed his body the pain would likely become quickly dulled. But to extract everything and anything from Will’s mind, before killing him… that would be the most gruesome.

“It’s a bit difficult to name just one. You’ve lied so much,” Will murmurs. Refuses to meet the man’s eyes. Hannibal bows his head but seems _for once_ unsure what to say. So, Will continues.

“I… I thought I knew you,” he admits. As if disclosing something of the utmost embarrassment. He remembers earlier, when he looked into Hannibal’s eyes and expected to see everything, especially after knowing the truth, but instead saw nothing. “I don’t know you at all.”

“I disagree.” Hannibal’s response comes uncharacteristically quickly, making Will’s head snap up, but Hannibal isn’t elaborating. He’s standing, moving closer to the bed and leaning over Will.

Panic comes over him before he can stop it. “N— _no,_ get back, I—“ He shakes on the bed, trying aimlessly to roll to one side or the other.

Hannibal freezes, again mildly confused, concerned, before realization dawns over his face. He sits beside Will on the bed and reaches up past his scalp to his wrists. In his hand, which Will was too frightened to notice before, is a key. The handcuffs fall away from his wrists with a couple clicks.

“What…?” His voice is mostly dead air, more of a breathy whisper than anything else. The harshness of his breathing has subsided and Hannibal takes the opportunity to run a couple fingers through the sweat drenched locks resting beside his eye. A shiver crawls down his spine at the touch; he closes his eyes.

“I restrained you simply because you seemed very set on ending your life. I did not want you to make another attempt if you awoke while I was away from your side. If I am here, there is no reason to keep these on.” Though his eyes remain closed, Will hears the clinking sound of the handcuffs falling to the floor—Hannibal’s proof that there is no need for them.

Behind closed eyes, Will is still exhausted enough to fall into a light, hazy sleep. It is short lived as he sees _organs laying out on a butcher’s block. Blood covers the wooden surface and drips down the sides into sopping puddles on the floor. And there’s no way it will ever wash out._

Will forces his eyes open. Only a few seconds have passed, Hannibal has not moved. When he awkwardly shifts is body he is relieved to feel that he has no erection. His body has not betrayed him, not so entirely.

“It wasn’t luck,” Will says. He doesn’t want to talk about this, but he needs to stay awake. Hannibal listens very carefully. “It wasn’t. It was everything. It was like my—heart has been _building_ to it, for weeks. It’d been dragging me down, making me… _heavy._ But you put _this mark_ on my neck, and you were there, at the crime scene, and I could smell you, and I had _just realized_ that I—“

Will stops speaking abruptly. Because he can’t, won’t, _refuses_ to confess his love (whether it still exists in the moment or not, he is unsure) to a cannibalistic serial killer that has singularly worked to ensure their entire relationship’s basing upon a lie.

Hannibal does not let it go: “You—what? Complete the statement, Will.”

He shakes his head, looks at the door and wishes he were in his own bed, safe. Or maybe dead somewhere.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s over.” There are only so many possibilities given to them. Will turns Hannibal in, Hannibal kills Will, Will kills himself, Will knocks Hannibal out and calls the police, Hannibal—Hannibal obviously feels the tension in Will, understands his train of thought and speaks.

“It does not need to be that way, Will.” Hannibal says. It was apparently not difficult for him to decipher Will’s curtailed declaration. Will isn’t sure if the angry edge to it is just his imagination or not. “There _are_ other options.”

Will scoffs, loudly. “Like what? You keeping me captive in your basement? Oh, or do you expect me to be _like you?”_

There is a long pause, during which Hannibal stares calmly through him while Will’s eyes dance across the room. He feels sick.

“Oh…Oh my _god_ …” He whispers, then raises his voice. “Is that _really_ how you saw this ending?! Have you been trying to—to turn me into a psycho, just so you would have a pal to gut _innocent people_ with?!”

 _Is that always what this has been about?_ Hannibal didn’t even want _him_ for _him._ He wanted to change him, alter him into something twisted and disgusting and _needy._

“We would have been happy, Will,” Hannibal chides. “ _You_ would have been happy. But, regardless, you misinterpret my words. I would never change you—your essence is far too precious to be tossed aside so tactlessly.”

He pauses, lets his gaze stray down his neck to his chest, to the bite mark sealed in his skin. _Tactless,_ Will thinks. Tactless is manipulating him towards homicide. _Would killing me be tactless?_

“That being said, you have so much _potential_ if you would only let the walls come down. If you had organically allowed yourself to—“

“No. _No_ , Hannibal!” He cuts the man off because he cannot _bear_ to hear another word of poison. “If you _cared_ about me, you would have known that I wouldn’t want that and you would have _fucking_ respected that!”

In the echo of his shout, his declaration, the room falls silent. Will moves from the center of the bed to sit on the edge opposite Hannibal. He wonders if his captor would let him leave this bed; he wonders if he really wants to. Bending to the violence of the monster feels so much simpler.

“Very well, I admit—I acted solely in consideration for my own desires. But we would have been happy together, the way I intended us to be. I would have ensured it.”

Guilt rises in Will, in response to how easy it is for him to believe Hannibal, to believe the bittersweet promises he offers. But belief isn’t enough—not now. He turns his face to his hands and works to still the tremble in his fingertips.

“What now, then?” He asks of the impasse. He can’t take it, the waiting. The ambiguity of what may come.

Hannibal hums, asks, “What would you like to come next, Will?”

“I—I don’t—“ he looks up, suddenly aware of how close Hannibal is. He had moved closer, gradual and discrete, since Will first looked away. Their eyes lock and nothing can stop his arm from rising, to finger against the bruise. Hannibal’s hand replaces his, delving beneath the collar of his shirt. He leans into the touch.

And here they are. Sitting on Hannibal’s bed. Where they’ve touched each other, fucked each other so many times. His lips fall open.

Will can taste Hannibal on his tongue before the man’s lips even press against him.

They first press against the bob of his Adam’s apple, teeth doing nothing but scrape the pulse point. An arm loops around his middle to pull him closer and Will doesn’t even resist against the hands that deftly work at the buttons of his shirt. But he does whine.

The sound hastens Hannibal. Fabric falls from his shoulders and the mark is laid bare between Will’s flesh and Hannibal’s mouth. The man sucks at his creation once more, kissing and biting at it violently, so violently. Until it burns and _aches._

Will feels a fire devouring him.

Once Hannibal is content with his widening and lengthening the love bite, lips skim upwards so he may teeth at his earlobe. Their chests—Will bare and Hannibal in a waist coat and rolled up sleeves—press together. Will could run his hands up naked arms, if he only reached out. Tongue sweeps across the shell of his ear.

“Do you want it to _hurt_ , my love?” He asks, referring to Will’s wish for pain during sex weeks prior.

The words are jarring, excruciatingly reminiscent, pulling Will from the reverie. His elbow flies up, into Hannibal’s neck. The impact leaves him reeling only barely, but it gives Will the space to jerk out of the hold. He is halfway out of the grip when Hannibal snaps forward to take hold of Will’s ankle. His balance fails him and the rest of his body falls to the floor. The plush carpeting of Hannibal’s bedroom cushions the impact.

Hannibal drags him back by his hair. An attempt is made to help the movement, he scrambles to follow despite himself, but still feels the pain resulting from the tug. With Will pliable, maneuvering himself on top is an easy feat for Hannibal. He pins Will to the bed between his thighs before allowing the grip to loosen.

“You told me to kill you, precious William. Does that not make your life mine?” Fingers trace the outline of his cock through his pants. “Doesn’t that make _you_ mine?”

“Don’t— _don’t_ —“ His eyes fly all across the room, looking for an escape that cannot be found.

Hannibal hushes him, cooing with gentle fingers, trailing across his lips. “I would never rape you, dear one. Do you really find me so crass, now that you know the truth?”

Will is unsure how to interpret the situation, when Hannibal speaks such things and yet presses his hand against his crotch, rubbing through the khaki trousers. The two actions seem to be at odds. His cock is hardening and part of him screams that he has yet to truly give consent, that Hannibal forcing arousal on his body isn’t kind or generous or any of the other words that Will could label the action with. But he doesn’t care—he jerks upward.

Is it really forced, when the passion comes so easily?

“Ah, there’s my good boy.” The endearments sting at Will’s ears to point of devastation. He leans up and kisses Hannibal.

He feels like he’s being ripped to pieces, thrown to the wind. Part of him wants escape. Another fragment desires nothing more than to be smothered by the man’s weight. Until death. The last wants to mewl into the grip, let himself be carried away.

It is that part that wins out, at least temporarily, when Hannibal undoes the button of his fly and tugs the fabric down his hips.

“Why are you doing this?” He asks faintly. Everything he knows about the Ripper tells him that the man should have him dead by now.

“I know you want this,” Hannibal replies, having elected to ignore the question. His tone is one of psychoanalysis. “You have…been aroused recently, upon returning from your hallucinations. You said your heart, your subconscious has been dragging you towards this day. Each step closer brought you arousal, no?”

“That’s not—It _wasn’t_ —“

“Hush, William. Even the truth could not drown your hunger. Your body betrays you.” This is especially true when fingers move to press against Will’s hole, when his knees unwittingly twitch up and apart to give better access.

“ _Oh god,”_ he mouths, silent. Hannibal does not hear, but feels the vibrations pulsing through his veins, content.

Hannibal leaves him to undress—rapidly, no doubt aware of Will being on the edge of flight instinct—and in the end he does retrieve lubricant. Unwilling to take the time necessary to open Will up in its absence. Back at Will’s side, naked, he smears it across his fingertips to apply it at Will’s hole.

He still hasn’t asked permission for any of this, part of Will’s mind continues to skew this as sexual violence, but the rest of him is glad of it. Relieved that he doesn’t have to make any painful decisions.

Fingers press up into him and he bites through his bottom lip in an attempt to silence himself. Hannibal licks at the blood. Forces his mouth open with a tongue so that when the fingers scissor at his hole he cannot keep quiet.

“Ah— _ah—Hannibal_.”

This is so much more hectic. Even when Will is desperate, Hannibal stays in control and makes him wait. Now is different. Before Will can so much as beg (though he tells himself he would never do such a thing) Hannibal is removing his fingers to grind up against Will’s thighs. He arches his neck, at the blunt sensation alone.

Hannibal rolls his hips down, cock sliding the first half-inch in, before easing forward. Will isn’t prepared enough, how could he be? Judging by the atypical, anxious look on his face, Will is lucky that he isn’t bleeding. Lucky that the monster isn’t rutting to seek his own pleasure.

Fully sheathed, their hips knock together. Will’s toes curl and his legs bend up around Hannibal’s waist. Hands scrape across the flesh of his back as he clings to the man with everything he has.

“I hate you— _I hate you!_ ” He growls, though he hates himself more. He wants to bite into Hannibal, to cause him _pain,_ but when he moves to do so he feels bombarded with the thought that the action is _so characteristic_ of the man himself.

“I know,” he replies. Merciless. Lips press to his cheek, tongue swiping across flesh and steaming beads of sweat as he pounds into him over and over again. “I _know_ , my darling.”

And Will truly believes this is as close to saying ‘I love you’ as they will ever get.

Hannibal moans, mouths against his flesh. Voice demanding, “Do you not _see_ , William? See how perfect we are together. And _now_ —how I need not hide myself from you. You _see me._ ”

“No, no, _stop it,_ ” Will replies, grinding his hips in upward circles. Working for incessantly insufficient friction. _I can’t see anything in you._

“We _need_ one another. There is no one else out there, for either of us.” Hannibal leans back, pulls out completely, and takes Will’s cheeks in his hands, so he can’t look away. He freezes, waits until Will pays him the attention he desires. Eyes burn red.

“I love you, Will,” Hannibal hisses through gritted teeth. The words should be gentle, calming, but instead they come out hectic and angry. Bitter for things taken from him. He thrusts back in, bruising Will’s insides with the sheer power of the motion. “I love you _so much.”_

“ _Shut up!”_ Will sobs, actually _sobs,_ because this is too much. He clenches around Hannibal in his hysteria—the man grunts in response. Because Hannibal is a monster and can’t even understand what love is. “You’re a psychopath—a sociopath—you don’t _know what it is_ to love someone—“

He doesn’t know like Will knows.

“Come, now, William. You know better than to define me by such asinine terms, I know you do. You _understand._ ”

“I _don’t understand you!”_ He’s choking on his tears, barely breathing against the suffocating fog. He wishes they weren’t having this conversation _now,_ in the throes of raw desire. He wishes they weren’t having this conversation at all. He wishes so many things. “How could I understand a _monster_ that—“

Hannibal does not give him the chance to attempt at an eloquent rebuttal (not that Will would have succeeded anyways). He kisses Will, full on and with a ferocity that is inescapably contagious. The tears do not stop, but he moans into it, knots his fingers into Hannibal’s gelled hair and imagines, almost blissfully, that he can rearrange the beast inside just as easily as the pristine disguise worn.

“I _love_ you, Will, and I will _never_ let you _go_.”

Teeth bury in his collarbone, each word riding on the staccato snap of Hannibal’s hips. Will clamors at his shoulders, anything for support in this terrifying place. The most miniscule of voices, residing in the back of his skull, intones that he needs to _deny this_ to make Hannibal stop saying such things. Because what the words _imply_ is unacceptable. But he doesn’t say anything, because he can’t get enough air in his lungs, and because he feels Hannibal must know this as well.

That, one way or another, he has to let Will go.

The fucking turns gentler, slower so that Hannibal can focus on kissing Will, scenting him and leaving infinite love bites across every stretch of skin he can reach. Each thrust is languid and their peaks consistently make the breath catch in Will’s throat.

This is nothing like Hannibal likely imagined, when he un-cuffed Will and stroked his hair, kissed him and coaxed him into letting himself be fucked. This was meant to be persuasive, meant to convince Will that he can’t possibly be without Hannibal. Pity, that the one time Hannibal is unable to manipulate Will is when it matters most.

“Tell me, Will.” _Tell me you love me._ Hannibal rubs the head of his cock against his prostate. “I know it’s true. You realized this morning, after you awoke from a nightmare, after you killed through _my eyes.”_

How does he know? How could he possibly _know that? Am I so transparent?_

“ _Tell me.”_ This time the words are a growl, animalistic and desperate. _“_ There’s no reason to hide, not from me.”

 _He needs to hear it,_ Will realizes. He needs to hear the words with the same intensity that Will needs to say it. So he gives it to him, because it’s true.

“ _I do_ ,” he whispers, knowing it won’t be enough, but if Hannibal can do all of _this_ to him, then he can exert his revenge with these few seconds. When orgasm reaches him, he speaks loudly, “Oh _fuck_ , I love you.”

The world breaks into a million pieces and he sobs through his orgasm, sobs because he hates everything about himself, but specifically that he could love a serial killer that has never done _anything_ but hurt him.

He realizes, with a fading sense of being, that Hannibal is also cumming, licking at his tears and kissing him through it. Biting his neck and face and chest and Will both fears and hopes the man will choose to bite through flesh. With absolution.

But he stops, traces the plush form of his lips up the curve of Will’s abdomen, the jut of his chin, to press their foreheads together. Eyes meet, lips brush, lacking any real pressure.

This is how Will wants to remember Hannibal; this is how he wants to be remembered. He still doesn’t know how this all will end, the mystery is boundless and sprawling, but he feels in his _gut_ that neither of them have ever been more alive (or more lifeless) than in this moment. It’s a paradox, an oxymoron, but that’s all anyone is, right?

It fades too quickly and numbness follows. It isn’t like before, when they could be in love without saying a word of the truth. There is too much hanging between them now, like miles of storm-poisoned, choppy water that’ll drown them if they try to maneuver it. The inelegance of everything that has just happened is suffocating, stamping out the sweet post-coital glow. It is gone before Hannibal even withdraws from him, to let the liquid of his seed dribble out on the sheets.

“You said that you could not betray me,” he says. There’s a bit of anger, tinting the words. It isn’t a question but Will nods. He knows what he’s referring to. Will empathizes with him, knows that they feel the same in this moment. “Then why would you ask such a thing of me?”

Will wishes he could roll over, turn his back to Hannibal like he does whenever they fight. Instead, he stares past him to the ceiling, numbering cracks.

“You already betrayed me.”

They speak no more. Hannibal wordlessly pulls Will’s dirtied body into the crooks of his form. Holds him tight for ages until exhaustion wins out and he falls asleep. Giving way to nightmares or death.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hannibal does not kill him, nor does he have any nightmares that night. He wakes at eight, after having a full night’s sleep, in Hannibal’s bed. He is alone and he feels in his gut that even if he searched the house he would not find Hannibal. His skin is dry and his mind is clear. He knows this is only temporary. That the nightmares will return soon, likely the next time he finds sleep (whenever that is), but he can’t help but feel that Hannibal is somewhat responsible for how clearheaded he feels. Finally.

He walks into the kitchen and finds a note placed carefully beside the stovetop. Will picks it up with deft fingers, as if it may taint his flesh. The handwriting is elegant, stretched across the paper as if Hannibal had tried to drag out the writing of it as long as possible. It reads:

_William,_

_One of my many trespasses against you is my withholding of information regarding your health. Please seek a second opinion with a neurologist. In two day’s time, an anonymous package will arrive at the FBI, containing all the evidence necessary to cement my identity as the Chesapeake Ripper. I recommend contacting Jack before then._

_You may choose not to believe me, but I am sorry, dear William. For everything._

_With Love,_

_HL_

Will retrieves a box of matches from a drawer and walks into the dining room. He lights a candle and holds the note up to the flame. Waits for it to catch before resting it upon the silver tray centerpiece and watches it burn to ashes. Then, he picks up the phone and calls Jack Crawford.

Outside, it is raining.

 

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> [Listen](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ti29LJxvdw8)
> 
> luvkurai.tumblr.com
> 
>  
> 
> [Prompt 1](http://hannibalkink.dreamwidth.org/1375.html?thread=949599#cmt949599)  
> [Prompt 2](http://hannibalkink.dreamwidth.org/1375.html?thread=931167#cmt931167)


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